


A Thousand Times

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Different take on the ending, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Moriarty makes them do it, very dubious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: “I want to go home,” John says in a voice which is steady and quiet and not shaking almost at all. “That’s what I want. I want to go home and have a cup of tea and maybe eat something. I want to sit with you on the sofa and watch you yell at television. And it seems the only way we’re ever going to get there is to get through this first. Okay?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 119





	A Thousand Times

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm using the Rape/Non-Con warning here, because this story definitely has a fuck-or-die setting quite literally and there's no way that doesn't count as non-con. But, you know. There're also FEELINGS.
> 
> [Here's my tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

He finds John in the basement. John is blindfolded and tied to the heater but alive, and that’s what matters. That’s the only thing that matters for now. He kneels down onto the floor next to John and touches John’s shoulder, and John flinches and turns his face towards him.  
  
“It’s me,” he says. “John, it’s me.”  
  
“Sherlock –,” John says, coughs, then takes a shallow breath as Sherlock tries to decide what to do first: take away the blindfold or cut off the ties? Blindfold, he decides.  
  
“Don’t move,” he says, wriggles his fingers under the blindfold and pushes the edge of the knife next to the fingers. John is shaking. “Careful,” he says and cuts the blindfold.  
  
“Oh, god,” John says, breathes in and out, all in him trembling. “It’s actually you. You’re here. You’re…”  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” Sherlock says, moving on to the ties around John’s wrists. They’re easier to cut off. Less risk of hurting John.  
  
“…late?”  
  
“Eleven hours, thirty minutes. That’s how long you’ve been missing. Approximately.” And it took Sherlock at least two hours to notice, because he was expecting something else from Moriarty. He was in the flat, and he kind of knew John wasn’t there with him, but he was talking to John anyway. They were arguing and John understood his points better than usually, so that should have been a good hint. And the tea was bad. Sherlock should have realised sooner that something was wrong.  
  
“Eleven hours?” John says. “Feels like days.” He’s rubbing his wrists now. He looks relieved, which makes the next part so much worse.  
  
The last room in the basement, after a long corridor. It’s a trap. It has got to be a trap. There’s no other explanation. Moriarty wouldn’t just _let_ Sherlock get John, absolutely not, that’s not how they’re playing this game, and oh, god, he feels suddenly sick. He hopes John doesn’t notice, and in the distance he hears the doors shutting. Maybe it’s in his mind. Doesn’t make a difference. It’s a trap, but it’s the only way to get John out, so he walked right into I and would walk a thousand times.  
  
He bites his lip. What a bloody great time be a romantic.  
  
“Sherlock?” John asks. Maybe he hears the doors shutting. Or maybe he sees something in Sherlock’s face.  
  
“Can you stand?” Sherlock asks, then takes a firm grip of John’s arm and pulls him up.  
  
“Sure,” John says and grabs Sherlock’s shoulder for support. It’s good, John’s fingers digging into his muscle through the fabric, it’s more comfort than he deserves at the moment. “What’s wrong? Are we in – “  
  
“Danger? Yeah.” There’re no windows in this room, nothing, only a bucket in the corner, the heater into which Moriarty had tied… had had someone tie John into, and a surveillance camera in the ceiling, and a screen on one wall. “Let’s go,” Sherlock says.  
  
They don’t get to the door. It slams shut in front of their face. Sherlock hits his shoulder against it. Next, he tries the handle like an idiot. Nothing. John presses a hand against the wall, holds himself steady, looks from the door to Sherlock and back. In the corridor, someone is walking away with almost lazy steps.  
  
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks. “I mean, did they hurt you?”  
  
John shakes his head. “What –“  
  
“Good. Great. Did they give you food? I know you like eating.”  
  
The way John laughs at him makes him feel so much better. He shouldn’t. This is only the beginning. “No, Sherlock, no, they didn’t feed me, but I’m not… I’m not going to starve.”  
  
“Do you need to piss? Or… Because there’s a bucket.”  
  
“I’m fine,” John says, then frowns, “actually, no, I think I have to… He’s not going to let us out, then.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says and walks to the camera, looks up at it. From behind his back, he hears John walking to the bucket and opening his zipper. He keeps his eyes on the camera. He won’t block the view from Moriarty but at least John can have a bit of an illusion of some privacy. “I had to come to you,” he tells, facing the camera. He hears the urea hitting the bucket. “Because that’s what he wanted.”  
  
That’s when the screen flickers and comes alive. Sherlock stops himself from closing his eyes. Not now, not so soon, not when John hasn’t even had time to tuck himself back into his pants -  
  
“Exactly,” a man says. Doesn’t sound gentle, not like the old lady described him. On the screen, there’s nothing but static. “Excellent work, Sherlock. Do you know what happens now?”  
  
Sherlock faces the camera again. John is finished and is standing perfectly still, like he’s preparing for an attack. Like a soldier. But there’s nothing to attack, except the screen. Pointless. “I brought you the missile plans,” Sherlock says to the camera. “As you wished. Now, let John go.”  
  
For a second, he thinks that is it. Then the man laughs. “Boring, boring, boring. Missile plans? I could get them anywhere. I could _google_ them.” His voice sounds oddly familiar. It’s… “ _Jim?_ Jim from the morgue? Yes, it’s me, Sherlock. Jim Moriarty, nice to meet you. But I must say, I’m disappointed. I gave you my number, after all. You could’ve called me.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “Open the door. Let us go. I’ll leave the USB stick here. For you. As a gift.”  
  
“I don’t _need_ it. Don’t be _boring_ , Sherlock. I thought you wouldn’t be _boring._ ”  
  
“Fine,” he says, carefully avoiding John’s gaze. “You can have me.” He can hear John breathing in: steady, controlled. Agitated. John doesn’t like this. Understandable. But makes no difference. “Let John go. I will stay and… play your game. Whatever it is.”  
  
“ _Whatever it is,_ ” Moriarty says. His voice is full of emotions, a display of them. An actor. “Oh, how brave,” Moriarty says, mocking him, as if it’s funny, or sweet, or stupid. Or all of those. “But, no. Sadly no, that’s not going to be enough. Give me something I don’t already have –“  
  
“Sherlock,” John hisses. It’s supposed to be a warning. _Don’t do anything stupid, Sherlock, for fuck’s sake._ Something like that. Sherlock can play the whole sentence in his head, in John’s voice. The only person he just might listen.  
  
The problem is that he’s already lost this game. There’s no reason to tell him not to be stupid, because he doesn’t have any real choices anymore. He doesn’t have any cards left in his hand. He knows it, and Moriarty knows it. John is the only one who doesn’t know it yet, but oh, god, he’s going to.  
  
“Just ask for it,” Sherlock tells Moriarty. “Whatever you want of me, just ask for it.”  
  
“Sure,” Moriarty says. “But what’d be the fun in that? You’re Sherlock Holmes. _You_ tell me what I’m going to ask of you.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know.”  
  
“ _Deduce_ it. _The skill of deduction,_ your little thing. Use it.”  
  
He opens his mouth.  
  
“And trust me,” Moriarty says, “I can still hurt you. So, if you don’t play by my rules, there’re consequences. You’re in my game now. You’ve been in my game for _days,_ you just didn’t realise it, running around and saving the day and thinking you’re actually _playing_. No, Sherlock, you’re the pawn. The nicest pawn I’ve had for a while, I must admit. Very pretty. But still, just a piece of… let’s say plastic. So, do what I tell you or I’ll turn the gameboard around. _Tell me what I’m going to ask you to do_.”  
  
Sherlock takes a step back, looks around – John, the heater, the bucket, John, John, _John_ , John’s worried face, John’s stilted posture, John is worried, John is afraid but containing it so well, and Sherlock is afraid too, more than John probably, and he doesn’t think he’s doing as good of a job at hiding it.  
  
“You have sixty seconds,” Moriarty says and then starts counting.  
  
The bucket, the heater, the ties, the last room in the basement, no windows, the screen -  
  
The picture on the screen alters. The static changes, then is gone, then there’s… there’s the room, and Sherlock, and John.  
  
“What the fuck –,” John begins, then suddenly freezes. Sherlock looks at him. He has his right hand in the pocket of his jeans.  
  
“Oh, bummer,” Moriarty says. Cheerful, not surprised. “You’ve ruined the surprise. Now, Sherlock, do you think you can deduce it?”  
  
“No,” John says. His voice sounds strange. Sherlock walks to him, takes the thing from his hand, looks at it -  
  
It’s a tiny tube of lubricant. A sample size. Looks cheap, something you could buy from Tesco.  
  
And then it hits him, the thing in his hand, and the way John is looking at him, and the silence in the speakers he can’t see. “Boring,” he says to Moriarty. His voice is trembling. Moriarty can probably tell. John certainly can.  
  
“Oh, no, it’s not,” Moriarty says. Absolutely cheerful, delighted because Sherlock didn’t see this twist coming, not at all. “I’m not bored, you aren’t bored, and your tiny precious John Watson certainly isn’t bored. But I’m terribly sorry that I must ask you to say it out loud. Just so that I know if you got it right.”  
  
Sherlock bites his lip.  
  
“ _Sherlock_ –“  
  
“Sex,” Sherlock says. John is staring at him like he expects Sherlock to save them from this somehow. He wants to tell John not to, but it would only make this worse. “You want us to… to have sex.”  
  
“Well,” Moriarty says, “you could be a bit more specific.”  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
“Please,” Moriarty says, “for me, to make me happy, since I’ve trapped you in this nice little room and have no intention of letting you go before you play my game.”  
  
Sherlock glances at John. He can’t help it, he has to. John is right there, looking at him. John’s mouth is slightly open, as if he’s forgotten about it.  
  
Sherlock licks his lips. “You want John to fuck me.”  
  
There’s a terrible silence in which his words echo in the room. He wants to say something else, just to stop himself from hearing it, but he can’t. He can’t do anything except stare at John, who looks absolutely disgusted, and that’s right, John would be, John never wanted anything of that sort, and if Sherlock sometimes imagined… well, he was wrong. He has been, before. With that sort of things. He’s never been an expert in that area.  
  
John clears his throat, and that’s when Moriarty laughs. “So, you _do_ have the necessary vocabulary for this. That’s good. That’s good to know. But well, you’re slightly wrong.”  
  
John flinches. Sherlock straightens his back. “Slightly wrong?”  
  
“Yes,” Moriarty says. “What did you think? I’m not a _monster._ I’m going to let you choose.”  
  
“Choose what?” John asks in a very quiet voice.  
  
“Choose what?” Sherlock asks, facing the camera.  
  
“ _Choose what_ ,” Moriarty mocks. “Who’s going to fuck whom, of course.”  
  
Sherlock turns to John very slowly.  
  
“So, this is basically a treat for both of you,” Moriarty says. “You like each other. It’s obvious. Every fucking imbecile could see that. John, you shot a man for him a day after you had met him. Considering your unnecessarily strict moral code, that’s pretty impressive. And none of that _I’m not gay_ bullshit, please, we all know that you’ve had sexual relations with men in the army. You’ve had someone bugger you in the arse, so to speak. And Sherlock –“  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath.  
  
“You love him,” Moriarty says, mocking, mocking, _mocking_ , “you just can’t help it, can you, you poor idiot, he’s barely cleverer than any average person and still you love him. He’s your favourite toy. I took him away from you and you rushed to rescue him, ran right into my trap, and you knew it was trap, because it was fucking _obvious,_ wasn’t it? You just couldn’t help yourself. So, what I’m really doing here is that I’m doing you a favour. You should thank me. So, talk about it, flip a coin, whatever you like. But one of you is going to take it in his arse within the next… let’s say, an hour. These things shouldn’t be rushed.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“ _What if don’t want to, Jim?_ ” Moriarty says. “ _What if I’d rather bugger him at home where it doesn’t offer any entertainment for anyone except me and him?_ Well, if you _must_ know, Sherlock, I’m not planning to let you say no. I like explosives, you know.”  
  
John looks very angry. Sherlock tries to look away from him but can’t.  
  
“Fuck,” Moriarty says, “or die. The choice is yours. And now, please, discuss. You have five minutes.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Sherlock,” John says. His voice is… too many things to interpret, at the moment. Sherlock can’t get a hold of it, because he can’t think, because Moriarty’s counting inside his head, and his hands are shaking, and he’s still holding the tube of lubricant, and he wants to drop it, but that wouldn’t help, but also nothing could help them now, nothing, and he doesn’t want to die, and he most certainly doesn’t want John to die, so that’s not an option.  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says again, his voice so sharp now that Sherlock actually stops pacing a circle and looks at him. “Is there… are you certain we can’t get out of this?”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“Are you –“  
  
“Yes,” he snaps, “yes, I’m certain that I’m certain. I’m not… I can’t….”  
  
“Alright,” John says and pushes his shoulders back. A soldier. He’s looking Sherlock in the eyes, so Sherlock can’t look away. “Then we’re doing it. We just have to decide… It should be me, Sherlock.”  
  
“…why?”  
  
“Tell me you’ve done it before.”  
  
He swallows.  
  
“Right,” John says, “so, you haven’t, and I have. It’s going to be easier this way.”  
  
“I can’t just…”  
  
“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to –“ And then John suddenly shuts up, takes a deep breath and walks to Sherlock. He places his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulders and keeps them there. It feels good. It feels as if Sherlock’s heart can slow down a little. “It’s just logic,” John says. “Trust me, I’m a doctor. I know. It’s going to go easier this way.”  
  
“But I don’t want to –“  
  
“I know,” John says. His thumb is petting circles on Sherlock’s neck. “I _know._ It’s just… if you’re sure you can’t get us out –“  
  
He nods.  
  
“Then this is how we’re going to do this,” John says. As if it’s so simple.  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I’ve never…”  
  
“It’s alright,” John says. “Really. You don’t have to… I’ll tell you what to do. I’m a fucking _doctor._ I can get someone’s dick into my arse safely enough.”  
  
“This isn’t funny,” Sherlock says, because John is smiling a sad little smile.  
  
“No, it’s not,” John says. “Not funny at all. But it’s just transport, remember? Just –“  
  
There’s a click when the speakers get switched on again. “So,” Moriarty says, “have you decided yet? Who’s it going to be? Sherlock, you can tell me the happy news.”  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. He feels as if he’s swallowed sand. Or a stone. “Me. I’m going to…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
He stares at John. “I’m going to perform a… sexual act. On John.”  
  
“Language, please.”  
  
“…I’m going to fuck him.”  
  
“ _In the arse,”_ Moriarty says.  
  
“In the arse,” Sherlock says, not able to stop looking at John. “I’m going to fuck him in the arse.”  
  
“Nice,” Moriarty says, and then there’s an odd sound coming from the speakers. It takes Sherlock a few seconds to realise Moriarty’s clapping. “Good boy, Sherlock. And well done, John. You won the argument, then. You’re the winner. Oh, wait, no, _I’m_ the winner, because I get to _watch._ So, get on with it, then, you two. No reason to wait. I must admit, I’m not terribly patient and I _do_ love explosives.”  
  
John takes a step at Sherlock. Sherlock backs away. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. Moriarty laughs, and then goes quiet.  
  
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Moriarty says. “The _rules._ You need to know the rules so that you won’t explode into pieces and not know why, because that’d be just rude of me, and I’m not rude, am I? No, I’m not. So, I’m going to tell you the rules. Firstly, I want _good_ sex. _Satisfying_ sex. Some idiots like dark stuff, you know, torture, that kind of a thing, but I don’t. I want a nice climax at the end, so John, tiny precious John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, you need to come. I want you to come with _his_ cock in your arse. Fun, isn’t it? You’re going to like it. And the second rule –“  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
“I want you to look at the camera.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I don’t think I can do this,” Sherlock says. On the screen, he can see himself panicking. He hates it. He wants out, he wants to get the fuck out of here, and he can’t, and he needs to save John from this, first and foremost he needs to save John, and he can’t do that either. “It’s not going to work,” he tells John. “We should’ve… the other way around. You could have done it. You’re… more capable.”  
  
“Hey,” John says, steps to him and stops in front of him, not touching him. It’s impossible not to look John in the eyes when John is right there. “Is it… Do you think you can’t… get it up? Because I understand that the idea of fucking me –“  
  
He almost laughs. “It’s not that.”  
  
John blinks. “It’s not?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says and then bites his lip too hard, “no, I didn’t mean… I wouldn’t… this is terrible, I would never…”  
  
“But it’s not impossible,” John says very slowly, seems to decide something, and touches Sherlock’s arm. “Is that what you’re saying? It’s not impossible that you… that you could get hard to…”  
  
Sherlock breathes in. “Not impossible, no.”  
  
“Good,” John says, “that’s good, that’s very good considering our circumstances. Sherlock, listen to me.”  
  
Sherlock licks his lips. It’s obvious that he’s listening, what else would he be doing, really, there’s nothing else to _do._ And John is still touching his arm.  
  
“I want to go home,” John says in a voice that’s steady and quiet and not shaking almost at all. “That’s what I want. I want to go home and have a cup of tea and maybe eat something. I want to sit with you on the sofa and watch you yell at television. And it seems the only way we’re ever going to get there is to get through this first. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“Good,” John says, stroking Sherlock’s arm with the flat of his palm. “That’s good. So, what I need of you now is to wait as I prepare myself, and get yourself hard, and get your dick into my…” He glances at the camera. “Into my arse. And fuck me. That’s what I need of you. Alright?”  
  
Sherlock nods again. It’s become quite obvious during the past months that there’re a lot of things he would do for John.  
  
“I just want you to tell me something first,” John says, touching Sherlock’s wrist. No one’s ever touched Sherlock’s wrist like that. John circles his fingers around it and rubs his thumb against the veins. It’s oddly soothing. “What _have_ you done?”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “What?”  
  
“Considering sex, I mean. What have you… have you ever… slept with anyone?”  
  
He stares at John. He’s known that John is curious, of course, John has… said something, commented on the women on the television with a certain tone in his voice, suggested that someone’s beautiful, then glanced at Sherlock with a questioning look in his eyes… But he never asked outright.  
  
“Women?” John asks, his thumb going still against Sherlock’s wrist.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says once he can get himself to talk. His mind is so busy processing all this that it’s difficult to manage words.  
  
“No?”  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“Never?” John asks, then takes a deep breath. Perhaps the answer was obvious. “Men, then?”  
  
“I don’t…” Sherlock closes his eyes and opens them again. John is still here, still listening to him careful, still wanting to hear this, _now_ , for some reason. “Yes. But I… I’m not usually very… People are stupid.”  
  
John laughs, then suddenly goes quiet, looks a little shocked at himself. “I’ve heard that before.”  
  
“I don’t _like_ people,” Sherlock says, “I don’t like _people_ , I just… sometimes, when someone’s… I _have_ , a few times, I have…”  
  
“What?” John asks. “Not this, though? You haven’t… you haven’t fucked anyone?”  
  
“No. But I have kissed… a couple of times. And I’ve… I’ve…”  
  
“It’s alright,” John says.  
  
It’s not. John wants to know, so he will tell John. “Blowjobs. Oral… sex. When someone I liked… seemed to expect that.”  
  
John frowns, then looks away from him, looks back at him, frowns again. Doesn’t stop touching his hand. Takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have –“  
  
“No, it’s alright.”  
  
“- made you tell me.”  
  
“You didn’t,” Sherlock says and clears his throat, “you did, but that was… practical, you needed to… to know what I can…”  
  
“No, I just –“ John rubs his nose. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It was rude to ask. I just thought, if I knew what kind of experience you… I shouldn’t have asked.”  
  
“Tell me,” Sherlock says, then tries to stop himself but it’s too late anyway. John already knows what he’s trying to ask. “Tell me what you have… In the army. And we’re…”  
  
“Even,” John says and smiles a little. It’s a tight smile. “Right.”  
  
It’s not right, Sherlock thinks, it’s not, and he should say so. But the reason why he recognises John’s curiosity about his history with sexual activities is that he wants to know everything about John, and also doesn’t, wants to know every little detail, and doesn’t, desperately wants a list of everything John’s done and when and with whom, and can’t stand the idea of it. He wants to imagine every sexual act John’s ever had with another human being and with himself, he wants to picture them in his head, and also he can’t bear the idea that John’s touched people, touched their naked bodies, their genitals, with his hands, with his mouth too, probably. And John has had _sex_ with people, intercourse, because that’s what they usually mean when they say _sex_ , right? John has had intercourse. With women Sherlock has never seen. John has placed his hands on their hips and pushed his prick into their vaginas -  
  
“In the army,” John says slowly, as if he’s waiting for Sherlock’s reaction, “I had a few… flings, you could say, with… men. I didn’t think much about it. It was… things were different there. In Afghanistan. It seemed like it was a completely different world. A different life. Felt like I could do almost anything and it still didn’t count.”  
  
“So you did… that.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says and licks his lips, “yeah, I did that. Okay?”  
  
“I’m jealous,” Sherlock says without thinking. It only hits him when he sees the look on John’s face. Late, too late, he can’t take it back now, _so stupid_ , he shouldn’t say things like that, he’s been so careful with John, he’s been guarding his words, not letting anything out -  
  
“Alright,” John says, sounding confused. “I’ll… Maybe we should save that conversation for later.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, tries to stop himself, can’t, “I mean, we don’t need to talk about it, it’s better if we don’t, I didn’t mean… I _did_ mean, but I didn’t… I know I don’t _own_ you, it’s not that, I know you have other things, friends, _a life_ , a…”  
  
“Do you realise,” says Moriarty through the speakers, “do you _realise_ that you’re supposed to fuck, and not talk? Because I appreciate this little heart-to-heart, I really do, it’s the soppiest thing I’ve ever seen except for Disney movies, and god, have I seen Disney movies, I _have_ , the villains are great in those, very inventive, but really, now is _not the time_ , boys. John, take your trousers off.”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock says, and John shoots him a look that’s clearly meant to say _shut up_ , or _piss off,_ or something like that, John is very inventive with his language. “Sorry,” Sherlock says again, when John sighs and opens his zipper. John glances at him. He turns away -  
  
“Look at him,” Moriarty says. “Look at him, Sherlock. He’s not shy about it.”  
  
“Fuck off,” John says to no one.  
  
“John Watson,” Moriarty says, “a soldier, a doctor, he’s seen bodies before, and I mean, _living_ bodies too, unlike you, Sherlock. He touches other’ people’s living bodies for a living –“  
  
John snorts in an unhappy tone. “That’s not really the point –“  
  
“He’s not shy,” Moriarty says. “Not at all. See? Look at his cock, Sherlock. John, your pants.”  
  
Sherlock blinks. John breathes in, pushes his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, breathes out, tugs the boxers down to his knees, all the way down to his ankles, then steps out of them, breathes in and out again and looks straight at the camera. The John on the screen looks distressed, worried, angry, but not exactly shy.  
  
“Your turn, Sherlock,” Moriarty says.  
  
“It’s not necessary,” John says at the camera. “Not yet. He’s not going to be pushing his dick anywhere anytime soon. Not in fifteen minutes, I’d say.” Sherlock flinches, Moriarty laughs. John is so good at this, wonderfully, surprisingly good. Perfect, even. John knows what to say to Moriarty even when Sherlock’s frozen with… he doesn’t know what, exactly. Fear? It doesn’t feel like fear. It tastes different. “We can start like this,” John says.  
  
Moriarty stops laughing. “No. Pants off, Sherlock.”  
  
_I tried_ , John’s eyes say. Sherlock wants to tell him that it’s alright, that he can do this, but he’s pretty sure that what his eyes are saying is something else altogether. He unzips his trousers, does it as quickly as he can but still it takes ages, pushes them down and steps away from them, doesn’t look John in the eyes, takes away his boxers as well. John looks away, too, and god, that hurts. It shouldn’t.  
  
“John,” Moriarty says, “ _John_ , dear boy, please, do look at him. He’s _right there._ ”  
  
John opens his mouth.  
  
“Or what, you ask,” Moriarty says. “You have a short memory. Too bad. Too bad you’re an idiot. Sherlock, tell him.”  
  
“The explosives,” Sherlock says. His voice is coming out wrong. “We need to do as he says or he’s going to blow us up.”  
  
“I hadn’t forgotten,” John says in a tight voice.  
  
“Great,” Moriarty says, “so you’re appropriately motivated then. Get off with it.”  
  
John hesitates for half a second.  
  
“ _Fingers_. You’re a doctor, John, you should know this. It’s generally a good idea not to stick the whole _penis_ there at once, especially when you’re somewhat inexperienced.”  
  
“I’m not –,” John says and swallows the rest.  
  
“He’s so _angry,”_ Moriarty says, “so, so, so angry, and that’s _such_ a good look on him, wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock? Did I already told you how I got him? Yesterday, I mean? I just had my man walk at him on the street and tell him that I had _you_. He came running.”  
  
John glances at Sherlock.  
  
“Well, we had to beat him up a bit, in the end,” Moriarty says, “but he rushed right into my trap, that’s what I mean. Like you walked into this one, Sherlock. Right now. You _knew_ that I was going to get you and still you walked straight in. Because you knew I had John Watson. It’s _so touching_. And a bit disappointing, really, because Sherlock, don’t you think that _we_ could’ve had a chance together? You and me? A criminal mastermind and a… a consulting detective with a pretty face. And a pretty dick.”  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
“Please, turn towards the camera.”  
  
“Just do it,” John says in a quiet voice. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“You aren’t hard for me yet,” Moriarty says. “How disappointing. And after I orchestrated all this for you.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says.  
  
“Because you couldn’t get laid on your own. That’s it, isn’t it? You. Just. Couldn’t. Get. Laid. Poor boy, Sherlock, you think you’re so clever, but you have absolutely no idea how to get yourself laid, even though John Watson is walking around in your flat _every single day_ , and I bet he looks good, I bet he looks _perfect_ to you, perfect little John Watson in his ordinary clothes and with his ordinary face, and all you can think of is how you could get to fuck him, but you can’t, you can’t, because you just have no fucking idea how –“  
  
“Sherlock,” John says in a sharp tone, steps to Sherlock and grabs his shoulder. Sherlock blinks. John moves his hand up, rests it on the back of his neck, his thumb touching Sherlock’s throat. “Eyes on me,” John says, and his eyes say _, don’t irritate him_ , “lube, please,” and Sherlock gives him the lubricant because apparently he’s been the one holding it, and he didn’t realise, there’s too much stimulus, he can’t comprehend… He thinks Moriarty’s stopped talking. That’s good. That’s good, because he couldn’t focus on that anyway, not when John takes the lid off and squeezes lubricant onto his palm. It’s clear and smells of nothing. John rubs it into his fingers, glances at Sherlock, looks away, and reaches behind himself -  
  
“No,” Moriarty says, “no, no, no, not like that, John, that’s just… don’t spoil the fun.”  
  
For a second John looks very tired.  
  
“Sherlock should do that,” Moriarty says. He’s smiling. “Sherlock, you’ll do that for him, won’t you? Because you’re a gentleman.”  
  
“He’s really not a gentleman,” John says so quietly Sherlock doesn’t know if Moriarty can hear it.  
  
“John, give Sherlock some lube,” Moriarty says, “and get onto your knees.”  
  
John sighs, takes Sherlock’s hand, rubs his own slicks fingers against Sherlock’s. Then he frowns and takes the lubricant. Right. They need more. _Sherlock_ needs more, because he’s going to try to push his fingers into… into…  
  
John gets onto his knees, breathes in and out, and props his elbows against the floor. He’s sideways to the camera. Sherlock doesn’t know if that’s intentional. But John wouldn’t want to be facing away… no, and not only because Moriarty told them to look at the camera, because that would also… Moriarty could see his…  
  
Well, Moriarty can see their _everything_ as it is.  
  
“Sherlock,” Moriarty says, “get behind him. In between his legs.”  
  
“I can tell him what to do,” John says.  
  
There’s a short silence. “You think so?”  
  
John closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again. “Please. Let me. Let me tell him what to do. It’s been a while, and this is going to be uncomfortable anyway, so I’d very much appreciate it if you let me give him instructions.”  
  
Moriarty doesn’t say anything. On the screen, John is on his elbows and knees on the floor and Sherlock is just standing there, his fingers slick with the lubricant, looking more scared than he ever remembers seeing himself. But that’s not true. He’s been more scared. Much more scared. He thinks. Must have been. But no one was filming it.  
  
“Please,” John says. He sounds like he’s trying not to sound angry and failing. “His… his _cock_ is so big, and I’m afraid it won’t fit, and I just want to… to tell him how to open me with his… fingers.”  
  
“Ah,” Moriarty says, “you can talk porn. Go on, then.”  
  
“So that he can fuck me,” John says, looking at himself on the screen, himself and Sherlock. Sherlock follows his eyes. “I want him to fuck me. With his… huge cock.”  
  
“You want it?” Moriarty asks.  
  
“Yes,” John hisses. “So badly. I… I _need_ it, I can’t… can’t enough of it, can’t wait for… for him to fill me up with his…”  
  
“His huge cock,” Moriarty says. “Okay, now this is getting repetitive. You’ve earned yourself a few liberties, John. Nicely done. You can tell Sherlock what to do, just see that it ends with you getting fucked. And I’ll even be quiet so that you can concentrate. You won’t even remember that I’m here.”  
  
John looks at Sherlock.  
  
“Go on, then,” Moriarty says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s not going to happen. He can’t do this. He can’t do this to _John_ , the only person in the world that actually _matters._ He just can’t, but he has to, but he can’t, but he has to -  
  
“Sherlock –“  
  
His hands are shaking. He supposes they’ve been shaking the whole time, he’s just blocked it out. He’s sitting on his knees behind John, and in front of him is John’s bottom, right there, and he could touch it, he _should_ touch it, he should push his fingers into the crease in between John’s _gluteus maximus_ , John’s… buttocks, he should touch John there until he finds John’s anus, and he should… he should…  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says. His voice is sharp but kind. Sherlock doesn’t know how he can do that. “Sherlock, are you listening to me? You have to listen to me.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says.  
  
“One finger,” John says, “just one finger at first. You can do this.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“Please,” John says, breathing hard. “I really can’t… I can’t talk you into this over and over again, I _can’t_ , I just want to go _home_ , you fucking git, and you want that too, so, please, do what I say.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock says, because John is right, John is absolutely right. He wants to go home with John. He wants everything to go back to normal. No games. Just coming home and finding John there. He wants that, and he needs to do this first. “What do I –“  
  
“Touch it,” John says, clever, brilliant John, who knows that _one finger_ is too vague as an instruction even though Sherlock knows exactly what it means. “Your forefinger,” John says, turning his head so that he can see Sherlock, “place it against my… my hole.”  
  
Sherlock does that, trying not to think that he’s… his finger is in between John’s buttocks and he’s pressing his fingertip against… and it’s warm, it’s very warm to touch. As he knew it would be. But he hasn’t thought… he never thought that they might…  
  
“Now, rub it,” John says, “gently, small circles, just to… just to ease me up a little. Yeah. Just like that. Just… alright. Push it inside.”  
  
Sherlock tries to. John is too tight.  
  
“Do it again,” John says, “the rubbing, and then… harder. Sherlock, you can push harder, just…”  
  
Sherlock’s finger slips inside.  
  
“Oh, _shit_ ,” John says, going very still. “ _Shit._ It’s been a while.”  
  
“Should I –“  
  
“Keep it there,” John says, so Sherlock keeps it there. He realises vaguely that he’s counting seconds. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s trying to calm himself. Or maybe he’s gathering information. That would make sense. Everything about John has value. How many seconds John needs to have Sherlock’s forefinger perfectly still, inserted just a half of an inch inside of him – valuable information.  
  
“Okay,” John says after Sherlock has got to _twenty-four._ “You can stick it deeper. But slowly. Just like that. Good, Sherlock, you’re – _ah_ – oh, _shit_ , you don’t need to stop, just...”  
  
“…you’re in pain.”  
  
“No,” John says, shaking his head, “no, I’m… I don’t know what I am, and frankly, I don’t want to think about it now. Another finger.”  
  
“Do I –“  
  
“Pull that one out, take more lube, push them both back in. Carefully.”  
  
Sherlock does that. John clenches around his fingers, breathes slowly in and out, closes his eyes and opens them again, glances at Sherlock, glances away. John’s face is flushed and his… “You’re…”  
  
“Yeah,” John says, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what do you think about… about touching my dick?”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“Not now,” John says, “later, later, when you’re… when you’re fucking me, because I can’t come from it alone, there’s no way, I need to have a… a hand on my dick.”  
  
“I can do that.”  
  
“Because I could do it by myself, maybe, it depends on the position we’re in, but –“  
  
“I’ll do it. Just tell me when.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and bites his lip, “oh, fucking hell, this is… this is _not good._ I need more.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“More fingers. You should… the third finger. Get it in. Pull your fingers out and just… just… _fuck_ –“  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock says. It’s too difficult, John is too tight, his fingers won’t fit, and the back of his hand brushes against the short coarse hair in John’s crease, and his thumb rubs against John’s perineum, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to do that but he doesn’t know how not to, his thumb has to be somewhere, he can’t just remove it -  
  
“You aren’t,” John says in a thin voice, “you aren’t hurting me. I really fucking hope that this would’ve happened, like, literally in any other situation but… you aren’t _hurting_ me.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and realises he doesn’t know what else to say, so he just keeps trying to wriggle his fingers into John, and stroking his thumb against John’s perineum because there’s no way he can avoid that, and rubbing John’s crease with his little finger, and if John thinks Sherlock’s doing it wrong, he doesn’t say it. Moriarty doesn’t say anything, either. A few times Sherlock thinks he can hear Moriarty breathing but maybe he’s imagining things. The skin on John’s buttocks is pale and a little pink and needs lotion and there’s a pimple, a small one, and when Sherlock touches it, John flinches. “Sorry. Sorry, I –“  
  
“Don’t say that you’re sorry,” John says, “I don’t want to hear it now. You can do that, Sherlock. Whatever you were doing, you can… you can do that.”  
  
“I just touched your…”  
  
“You can do that.”  
  
He doesn’t do it again, though, because Moriarty is breathing again, maybe in his mind, but that’s enough. This isn’t real. Whatever John is saying to him isn’t real, and when he looks at himself on the screen, he looks sad and lost and like he doesn’t know what to do, and also he’s erect. John has probably noticed, too. Now John knows that pushing his fingers into John is sexually arousing for Sherlock. And he’s quite sure John would never use this knowledge against him, not on purpose anyway, and it only makes it worse somehow, because John is so _good,_ and John doesn’t deserve any of this, and Sherlock shouldn’t get _hard,_ not for this, not until it’s necessary for what he’s going to have to do.  
  
He breathes in and out, in and out. “…John?”  
  
“You’re doing so great,” Moriarty says, imitating John’s voice, and it’s wrong, it’s so wrong that Sherlock pulls his fingers out without thinking and immediately regrets it when John groans in pain. “You really are amazing, Sherlock,” Moriarty is saying, “you’re incredible, extra-ordinary, just bloody fucking _brilliant,_ and now _this,_ your fingers are brilliant too, I didn’t know how badly I wanted them in my arse until you shoved them there –“  
  
John settles down onto the floor, on his back, folds his knees and rubs his palm against his face. He looks like he needs to be comforted. Sherlock has never been good at comforting people, no, he’s terrible, he always messes everything up. He sits down on the floor and takes a deep breath.  
  
“Really, though,” Moriarty says, all serious now, “I was surprised to find out you haven’t fucked yet. It’s obvious that you both want to. I’ve been watching you, so let me tell you – it’s _obvious._ ”  
  
John glances at Sherlock, then keeps looking. Sherlock looks back at him.  
  
“Sorry, am I ruining the mood?” Moriarty asks. “We really must do something about that since we aren’t even half-way through this yet.”  
  
Sherlock bites his lip. John is still looking at him, but he can’t read John _at_ _all_ , not now.  
  
“The next part of our game, as you know, is for you, Sherlock, to get your dick into John Watson’s arse. And it really doesn’t look like it’s up for the job.”  
  
John glances down, his eyes stopping at Sherlock’s genitalia. Sherlock fights the urge to cover himself with his hands.  
  
“I suppose you’re going to need a little help with that,” Moriarty says. “John, if you would be so kind, please get onto your knees and take Sherlock in your mouth.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Shh,” John says. He’s kneeling in between Sherlock’s legs, his hands resting lightly on the back of Sherlock’s thigh, and his mouth… his mouth is at the same height with Sherlock’s crotch. Which is probably the point.  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“Shh,” John says again, petting the back of Sherlock’s thigh. “If you argue, he’s going to start talking again, and I can’t… I just can’t stand…”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says. “I should’ve… I should’ve got us out…”  
  
“Hey,” John says in a quiet voice, “it’s okay. I’ve done this before, too. A dozen times. There’s nothing new about this.”  
  
Everything is new about this.  
  
“Come on, Sherlock. Don’t feel sorry for me.” John breathes out. “It’s such a turn-off if you feel sorry for me.”  
  
“Sorry –“  
  
John smiles.  
  
“ _Shit._ ”  
  
“Okay,” John says and raises his hands until he’s touching Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock legs start shaking, so he leans his palm against the wall. He’s facing the camera, which he supposes is the way Moriarty wants it, because now he can see Sherlock’s face when… “Are you ready?”  
  
“No,” he says.  
  
John sighs, then leans forward and presses a light kiss on Sherlock’s right hip. Sherlock tries not to flinch. “Hey,” John says, _“hey_ , it’s just me. Just you and me. Look at me.”  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes.  
  
“You’re a stubborn bastard,” John says, quiet and stressed but also vaguely amused. “I don’t know what I see in you.” And then he takes Sherlock’s soft cock in his right hand, tugs carefully three times, and leans forward and closes his mouth around the tip.  
  
So, that is -  
  
That’s -  
  
That’s Sherlock’s cock in John’s mouth, and that’s -  
  
He touches the back of John’s neck, runs his fingers through John’s short hair, back down to his neck again, touches John’s shoulder, leaves his hand there for a moment. John makes a weird noise, like he’s… like he’s brushing his teeth and wants to tell Sherlock something. That happens. It happens especially at the times when Sherlock goes into the bathroom when John is in the middle of the process of brushing his teeth. It’s a mystery why John thinks that’s odd. Sherlock doesn’t come in when John’s urinating, does he? Because _that_ would be odd. And he doesn’t. There’re so many things he doesn’t do because John doesn’t want him to, like, he never sniffs at John’s clothes when they’re waiting for laundry, not even John’s pullovers that would smell of the cheap deodorant John uses, and of tea, and of… John. He wants to, though. Once he almost did. But there’re rules to these things, and he needs to follow them, because he can’t lose John. He just can’t. He doesn’t know when he became addicted, but he is now. Maybe John is his substitute for cocaine, but he’s afraid cutting John off from his life would be much worse than cutting off cocaine, and that has been _terrible_ every time he’s done it.  
  
John touches his thigh. He blinks and realises he’s been… he’s been pushing his cock into John’s mouth, apparently, because John’s face is red and he looks like he can’t breathe properly. Sherlock pulls out, John takes a deep breath and starts coughing, and Moriarty laughs.  
  
“Just a little more,” Moriarty says, “and you’re ready.”  
  
This time, Sherlock keeps his thoughts clear. This time, he remembers what’s happening. He watches John taking him into his mouth. He’s hard now, and John is sucking him, which is optional, he supposes. Moriarty didn’t say anything about it.  
  
Sherlock touches John’s cheek with his fingertips. “John,” he says, and John shivers, so he does it again.  
  
  
**  
  
  
_John_ , he thinks. _  
  
John._  
  
_John, do you think that you’d -_  
  
_John, I know that you don’t -_  
  
_John, did you know that I -  
  
John, I really -  
  
John_ - _  
  
_He knows that John isn’t in love with him. Of course not. People never are. He doesn’t operate on the same level with other people. Love is about… understanding, about knowing someone, and no one _knows_ him, because he’s different. But what he hadn’t realised was how badly _he_ wants to understand. He wants to dissemble John, look into every piece that makes John _John_ , and only then put those pieces back together. He wants to get so close to John that he can see _everything._ He wants to know how John thinks. He wants to know what John feels. He wants to know what John wants, and he wants John to want _him_ , which is weird. He never wants people to want him. It’s inconvenient and complicates everything. But he wants John to want everything of him, everything he could possibly give John.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says.  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says again, his voice low and steady. This is a command, then. “I want you to push your dick into me.”  
  
“Good boy, Sherlock,” says Moriarty. “Listen to him. Do it, and soon this is over.”  
  
Sherlock wants to cry.  
  
_John_ , he thinks.  
  
“Just do it,” John says. He’s on his elbows and knees again, but this time, he’s facing the camera. Moriarty’s orders. Sherlock refuses to think about what is going to happen with the film. “ _Sherlock_ –“  
  
"Yes,” Moriarty says, “ _Sherlock_ –“  
  
“I can’t listen to him anymore,” John says, quietly enough that maybe Moriarty doesn’t hear. John sounds like he’s about to break. That’s a familiar tone. He sounds like that when Sherlock has left body parts in the fridge. “ _Please_.”  
  
Sherlock rubs his thumbs against John’s hips.  
  
John nudges against him, against the tip of his cock which is resting against John’s…  
  
He pushes inside and John goes quiet.  
  
“Yeah,” Moriarty says, and Sherlock hates him, just absolutely fucking _hates_ him, and when he’s done, he’s going to _kill_ Moriarty, but not now. Not now. Now, he tunes Moriarty away, closes away everything except John, and it’s surprisingly easy. John is panting. Sherlock’s cock is half-way in him, and he’s tight and warm and Sherlock _knew_ that and still didn’t know. Maybe this is one of those things when reading about it just doesn’t count.  
  
He pushes another inch in and John swears at him, then tells him not to stop.  
  
He thinks about John in Afghanistan, letting someone else do this, but that’s clearly a mistake. He can’t think about that now. He can be jealous later, when they have time.  
  
He pulls out of John and pushes back in and almost falls against John’s back, because it’s too much.  
  
No, it isn’t.  
  
Yes, it is.  
  
No, it isn’t.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says in a thin voice, “can you… could you possibly… touch my dick?”  
  
Sherlock tries. He almost slips out when he reaches for John’s cock, but doesn’t. He takes it in his hand. It’s bigger than his, slightly bigger than average. He supposes John’s proud of that but would firmly deny it.  
  
“Don’t just _hold_ it, you idiot,” John says, and his voice is so soft and breathless that it goes through all the layers Sherlock has built ever since John came into his life, “just…. you aren’t going to break it.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“And don’t fucking say that you’re sorry.”  
  
He doesn’t. Not anymore. He thinks. He’s not sure. He can’t be sure, because it’s difficult to know what’s happening anymore. He fucks John, John Watson, _his_ John Watson, he fucks John on the cold cement floor in the room with no windows. He can see himself on the screen and wonders if that’s what people look like when they’re having sex, or if it’s just him. He looks ridiculous. He looks like he’s in love and absolutely fucking terrified that he’s going to break his heart. And under him, _around_ him, John trembles and pushes into his fist and against his cock and makes all kinds of noises he can’t even begin to catalogue, but he remembers the last one. He thinks he’s going to remember it for a long time. Possibly forever.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says after he’s already come. He’s resting his forehead against the floor. His shoulders are shaking.  
  
Sherlock removes his fingers from around John’s cock, then pulls slowly out of John.  
  
“You didn’t have to,” John says. It’s barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean that you’d have to… come here, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock means to tell him that it’s alright, but he can’t remember how to use words. He sits down onto the floor and John reaches for his lap, wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s dick and starts tugging. It’s absolutely graceless. He comes in twenty seconds.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Sherlock,” John says, stroking his hair. “Sherlock, are you…”  
  
Sherlock blinks. He’s here. He’s been here the whole time. He blinks and blinks and blinks and realises he’s not wearing trousers, and there’s semen on his stomach and on his thighs, and someone’s walking down the corridor.  
  
“Are you alright?” John asks, which is absolutely the wrong question. John should ask why Sherlock hasn’t put on his trousers yet, and why he isn’t doing anything, why he isn’t trying to fix this, why he isn’t trying to figure out what Moriarty wants next -  
  
But John still has his hand in Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock said and clears his throat. “Yes, I’m alright. Are… are you?”  
  
“Yeah,” John says and smiles at him, but it’s a tight smile. “We’re going to have to talk about this.”  
  
“You can talk,” he says, “just not now, now I need to –“  
  
Someone stops behind the door, no, multiple people stop behind the door. John sits up, looks around, seems to realise that it’d be a futile attempt to put on his trousers. It sounds like whoever is behind the door has the key.  
  
“Fucking hell,” John says and throws Sherlock’s trousers at him.  
  
The door opens.  
  
Sherlock stumbles onto his knees.  
  
“What -,” Lestrade says, “what the fucking hell happened?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John is very quiet on the way home. He’s clutching the orange blanket one of the police officers gave him. He looks ridiculous, and Sherlock wants to touch him but can’t, because he’s got his own orange blanket, and Lestrade is throwing heavy glances at him through the rear-view window. It was surprisingly difficult to talk Lestrade into letting them just go home instead of hospital.  
  
“So,” Lestrade says, when he stops the car in front of 221B Baker Street. “You two are going to be alright, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” John says, which is great, because Sherlock wouldn’t remember how to answer. He gets out of the car. John says something to Lestrade but he doesn’t hear what, because he’s already at the front door, only he doesn’t have his keys. He knocks until Mrs. Hudson comes to open the door. By then, John is standing next to him.  
  
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, “I was so worried.”  
  
“We’re fine,” John tells her, “but I think we’re going to need to… a little time, to…”  
  
“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson says and disappears, thank god. Sherlock walks to their flat and stops in the middle of the living room. He should eat. No, he should sleep. No, he should take a shower. No, he should urinate. No, he should eat. No, he should drink something. Water. Tea. Water and tea. Alcohol? No, not alcohol, it’s going to make it worse. Cocaine? No, _no,_ not cocaine, John is here, and John doesn’t like cocaine.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and follows him to the kitchen. He opens all the cupboard doors before he remembers he needed to go to the bathroom. “Sherlock,” John says then through the closed bathroom door, “I don’t know what… I really don’t know if I ought to give you some time or… maybe we should talk about this right now. Before it becomes more difficult.”  
  
Sherlock urinates, flushes the toilet, washes his hands, washes his face, washes his face again, thinks about the shower, can’t bother. When he comes out of the bathroom, the door almost hits John in the face. Sherlock doesn’t want that. That’s the last thing he wants. He tries to apologise but can’t remember any words.  
  
“Eat something,” John says, “anything,” and then he blinks, “something edible. And wait for me in the kitchen. I’m just going to use the toilet. And maybe take a shower. And –“ And he stops, frowning at Sherlock. There’s probably something on Sherlock’s face that shouldn’t be there, but Sherlock can’t figure out what. “I can do that later,” John says and clears his throat. “Just… wait for me. Don’t go anywhere.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“Because I can’t handle this on my own,” John says, raises his hand and rests it on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock looks down. John is _touching_ him. He takes a deep breath and then another. “I swear to you, if you’re going to run away and leave me handle this on my own, I don’t know what…”  
  
Sherlock licks his lip. “I won’t.”  
  
“Good,” John says in a thin voice. His fingers on Sherlock’s chest feel heavy. “So… just give me a minute.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock says and then watches as John pulls his hand away, goes to the bathroom and closes the door, doesn’t lock it, walks to the toilet, opens the lid, opens his zipper and – and Sherlock walks to the kitchen, closes all the cupboard doors, then opens the one that holds the cereal box. Thank god John’s been shopping. Ridiculous food, but easy. Easy to eat straight from the box. In the bathroom, John is washing his hands, and Sherlock sits down at the table and then stands up immediately, walks a circle, comes back, goes to the bathroom door and waits there as John opens the door. “I’m sorry,” he tells John. “You shouldn’t have been there. You shouldn’t have… you shouldn’t have any part in this, I didn’t think he’d take _you_ , I didn’t realise…”  
  
“Hey,” John takes and grabs his arm. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s skin. He’s squeezing too hard. “ _Might be dangerous._ That’s what you told me, right in the beginning. I knew what I was getting myself into, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“Well, alright, there’re some things I didn’t see coming,” John says, stops squeezing Sherlock’s arm but doesn’t let go. “Tonight was… not good. But there’ve been… some things are very good, Sherlock, like… like you and me.” He sighs, licks his lips, looks at Sherlock. He’s so… so much more than anyone else could ever be. “Come on,” he says quietly, rubbing Sherlock’s arm with his thumb, “let me eat something. I’m fucking starving, alright? Come to the kitchen with me and we’ll eat and then we’ll… and then we’ll go on from there.”  
  
“From the kitchen.”  
  
“Metaphorically,” John says and takes Sherlock’s hand, actually entangles his fingers with Sherlock’s and folds them so that he’s holding Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock has seen that happen. In movies. He frowns, and John tugs at his hand until he realises John wants him to walk to the kitchen. “Good,” John says when he follows John there. “Now, sit. I see that you found the cereal.”  
  
“I’m not hungry,” he says but sits down.  
  
“I am,” John says and gives him a glass of water. “Drink that. And let me eat.”  
  
He lets John eat. He _watches_ John eat, and John doesn’t tell him to stop, which is good, because he wouldn’t know how. Then finally, and too soon, John stops eating, puts the plate in the sink, drinks a glass of water, breathes out, and turns to Sherlock.  
  
“That was the weirdest fucking situation I’ve ever been,” John says slowly, as if he’s afraid that the words might come out wrong. “And I would’ve never wanted it to happen to you, and also I’m so fucking glad you were there with me, because without you… because without you it would’ve been so much worse.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have been there without me,” Sherlock says. The words sound all wrong. He _feels_ wrong. He wants to lock himself in the bathroom and rub himself clean until he can’t remember any of this, not his own fingers searching in between John’s buttocks, pushing _inside,_ or his dick in John’s mouth, getting hard, or _inside_ John, almost like they were having sex, for real, and he’s thought about that, hasn’t he, and he never thought it would happen. And it _didn’t._ He wants to get it out of his mind, but he also knows he’s never going to let go of the memory. His fingers inside John, his dick inside John, his hand tugging John, John trembling and shaking and panting and coming into his hand -  
  
“What’re you thinking about?” John asks. He sounds like he knows.  
  
Sherlock swallows. “I think I should take a shower. But I…” He can’t let go of John, because what if he locks himself in the bathroom and then comes back and John is gone, just gone, or worse… what if John is looking at him differently?  
  
“I’m not going to let this come between us,” John says. “I’m just… not. You’re my best friend. I won’t give that up only because some sick bastard wanted to… play with us.”  
  
“…your best friend.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says, then frowns, licks his lips, “I mean, you’re my… you’re everything, Sherlock. Surely you know that.”  
  
He stares at John.  
  
“So,” John says pointedly, pulling his shoulders back. A soldier, once more. “I’m pretty tired, and I really need to sleep.”  
  
Sherlock bites his lip. “Of course. Sorry. I… Of course you want to sleep.”  
  
He tries to stand up, to go away so that John can go to sleep, but John catches his hand first. “You need to sleep, too,” John says.  
  
Sherlock nods. That makes sense. He’s probably tired, he just can’t feel it right now.  
  
“I’ve got one question,” John says, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “Before we go to sleep and figure out the rest of this tomorrow. Or some other day.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock says. He sounds scared.  
  
John looks straight at him. “Can I sleep in your bed?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It should be weird. It isn’t.  
  
“Sorry,” John says when he pokes at Sherlock’s arm with his elbow under the duvet.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. “You can do that as many times you like.”  
  
John lets out a breath that might be a small laugh. Who knows. It’s dark and Sherlock couldn’t see John’s face anyway, because his own eyes are closed. “Really?”  
  
“Yes.” He doesn’t have the energy to make it sound like a joke.  
  
John is quiet for a long while, then rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. There’s nothing new about that, only everything is new, because Sherlock’s not wearing a shirt and when John rubs a circle with his thumb, it feels like every goddamn nerve under Sherlock’s skin comes alive. _“Really?”_  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” John says.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Sherlock says, taking a deep breath. He’s not going anywhere anymore. He’s in bed with John and all his cards are on the table. He’s stopped playing. “He told you. In there. He told you that I –“  
  
“Moriarty?” John says the name as if he’s talking about a bully in a state school. “I wasn’t listening to him.”  
  
“Yes, you were,” Sherlock says, keeping his eyes closed. Whatever there is on John’s face right now, he doesn’t want to see it. “He got it right.”  
  
“Well,” John says very slowly, caressing Sherlock’s shoulder, because he’s perfect, he always was. John Watson is _perfect._ “He got my part wrong,” John says in a somewhat breathless voice. “I love you too.”  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes. It’s too dark to see properly, but he can see that John is looking at him.  
  
“So,” John says, “we could sleep now, and kiss in the morning.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him. He’s still there. He looks real. _This_ feels real. “I don’t know if I can wait until the morning.”


End file.
